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“You’re going to write a letter,” he says.
I already know before I ask, “To who?”
“To Damian. You’re going to tell him you met someone, a foreigner visiting your country, and that he swept you off your feet. Love at first sight. You went out for dinner. It was beautiful, like a fairytale. You were devastated when he had to go back to his country. He couldn’t bear leaving you behind, so he asked you to come with him. You didn’t think twice. He got you a passport, and you left the country. You’re in Europe with him now, and you’re very, very happy.”
He presses his palms on the desk, putting our faces close together. His eyes are cold, as always, but it’s a different kind of cold, a cold that frightens me, because flames can burn a cold shade of winter.
“So happy, that you’re never going back.”
It’s that spark flickering under the deepest layers of gray ash that makes me lean back. It’s the story he told, the one he stole from my books that parts my lips on a soundless gasp. It punches a hole straight through my heart, because this will be the most terrible lie I’ve ever told, and I’ve never lied to my brother, not even once.
My nostrils stir in the stare-off between us, faint tremors running over my body and accumulating in my fingers where he pushed the pen.
I was holding out for that story, for that love. That man. He has no right to steal that place, to take my fantasy and twist it into a hopeless lie. I can’t write it. If I do, I’ll lose a piece of myself, and I swore I wouldn’t.
The pen drops from my fingers. It rolls to the edge of the desk where he catches it.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
He puts the pen back in my hand, folding my fingers around it. “You will.”
“I’ll come up with something.” My voice is hoarse. “Something Damian will believe.”
“He’ll believe this.” He pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Nothing else.”
How does this stranger know so much about me from going through my belongings? There’s more to this than cooking up a believable story. Maxime wants to make my fantasy his own. He wants to feature in it. That’s what those cold flames signify—excitement.
“I’ve never lied to my brother,” I say in a feeble attempt to appeal to his compassion, even if I’m starting to believe he has none.
“I wouldn’t corrupt you if I had a choice.” His gaze moves to my lips, then to the neckline of the dress. “In this, there is no choice.”
He says it with so much conviction, regret almost, that I’m silent for a moment. The statement is false. Of course, he has a choice, but he believes he doesn’t. I want to beg him not to make me do it, but he tightens his fingers over mine where I’m clutching the pen and brings my hand to his mouth. I’m shocked to an immobile state as he kisses every knuckle, five times of reverence. It’s only when the warmth of his lips fades that I get the function of my body back, enough to pull away my hand, enough to put pen to paper, and start the destruction of a part of my dream.
This is important to me. Was important to me. My hand shakes as I spin the tale, so much that he stills me, tears off the page, and makes me start over.
He kisses my head tenderly, whispering in a soothing tone, “It’s all right, little flower. You’re doing well.”
The untruth burns into my heart as I write it. It’s more than lying to my brother. It’s admitting that my dream is over, destroyed. That I held out for nothing. That it’s never going to happen. No knight is going to charge in on a white horse and save me, just like Damian had said.
So, I do. I write it. I say Maxime’s words. At the end, I sign off with, I love you, always. It’s the only piece of truth in the letter, the part that will tell Damian the rest is false. I never say I love him. I don’t have to. He knows. Damian and I don’t use that kind of language with each other. Maybe it’s because our parents couldn’t tell us they loved us, and we’ve always felt awkward admitting the words.
I turn my face to look up at Maxime. He’s shaking his head, giving me a disapproving tsk of his tongue. “That’s one of the things I find so endearing about you. It’s your will to survive.” He strokes a hand over my head. “Just like a little wildflower.”
Feigning innocence, I ask, “What do you mean?”
He straightens, takes his phone out of his pocket, swipes over the screen, and turns it to me.
